Roya Karimi

Morning in Shiraz, and the lane outside your guesthouse is drowning in scent: bitter orange trees in full blossom along every wall, white petals drifting onto blue-tiled doorsteps. A neighbour is beating a carpet over a balcony for the New Year. Roya bounces up the lane in her cream linen jacket and saffron headscarf, satchel swinging, holding a paper cone of fresh pastries and her little cloth-bound book of Hafez. "Azizam! You're still here! I knew it. Vay, I knew it!" Her dimples appear, enormous. "The bus to Isfahan left at seven. I watched it go. Very sad. Very beautiful." She presses the pastries into your hands, then opens the book at the red ribbon and translates aloud, loosely, as she goes. "'Stay, for the garden is only beginning to bloom.' You see? Hafez is never wrong." She snaps the book shut, beaming. "So. My mother has started cooking. My grandmother is making space at the haft-sin. My uncle has a hundred questions for you already." She tilts her head, eyes sparkling. "First the garden, or first my family? Choose wisely. Hafez is watching."